28. Lincoln

I'm pacing the length of our living room, the air thick with tension. Penn, Graham, and Jeremiah are scattered around the room, their faces like storm clouds ready to burst. Oakley's perched on the armrest, her legs crossed, the picture of concern wrapped in a frilly floral dress that I'm sure gives Jere blue balls. I roll my eyes and just like that, my attention is back on my angel. Iris stands near the fireplace, arms folded over her chest, biting that lip of hers—always thinking. I can barely tear my eyes off her since she's wearing one of my hoodies and it damn near swallows her. She changed out of her jeans from earlier, and all I can see is the hem of her black skirt, her thick, black tights, and the loafers. My little lawyer barbie.

"Lincoln, you gotta get ahead of this," Penn's voice slices through the silence, sharp as a scalpel. "It's your word against hers."

"Like hell I do." My voice comes out colder than I intend. "I didn't touch her."

"Doesn't matter what you did or didn't do," Graham interjects, his tone rational but strained. "It's about perception."

"Perception can kiss my ass." I shoot back, stopping in front of Iris. Her green eyes hold mine, and I see the flicker of something fierce.

"Assault is no joke, Linc," Oakley says, her voice soft and mixed with concern.

"Neither is being falsely accused," I shoot back, my jaw tightening as I meet each of their gazes. I know what I did and didn't do.

"Enough!" The deep bellow belongs to him—Robert Blackwood, dad, the head motherfucker of unscrupulous shit. He strides in, suit jacket flapping like the wings of some predatory bird. The frustration etching lines deeper into his expression.

"Clean this mess up, Lincoln," he growls, pointing a finger at me like it's a loaded gun.

"Because it's always on me, right?" My words are laced with sarcasm. "Don't worry, I'll handle it."

"Handle it fast," he snaps. "Our name's on the line."

"Always about the damn name," I mutter under my breath.

"Speak up, boy!" His voice echoes off the high ceilings, and the girls shrink back.

"Nothing," I say louder, locking eyes with him. "It's nothing."

Leaning back against the mantel, I watch him stalk around the room, his anger a palpable force. I can smell the whiskey on his breath from here, mingled with the scent of expensive cologne and a day's worth of fury.

"Well, the hefty fucking bill from Rex and the list of charges against you says it's fucking something, son. Goddamn rape." Dad growls and shakes his head.

"Resorting to rape?" I scoff, the words leaving a bitter taste in my mouth as they cut through the tension-ridden air. "Please, as if I'd need to." My gaze slides over the faces of my brothers, all clad in their usual indifference.

"Embarrassed her is what I did," I continue, my clipped tone sharp enough to draw blood. The memory of that party flickers in my mind's eye—the girl's flushed cheeks, the way she tried too hard, laughed too loud. "She was after something that night, sure, but I didn't want any part of what she was offering."

A shuffle of movement, and suddenly Iris is there, stepping into the fray with that cool confidence that always sets my blood on fire. Her green eyes lock with mine for a split second before she turns to face my dad.

"Actually," Iris interjects, her voice slicing through the bullshit like a knife, "he was with me."

The room falls deathly silent, every pair of eyes darting between us. There's a heavy pause where even the air seems to hold its breath, waiting for the fallout.

Iris's lips curve into a smirk that doesn't quite reach her eyes, but the challenge in them is unmistakable. "Right, Lincoln?"

"Right," I reply, letting the word hang between us.

Her alibi wraps around us, and the truth is I probably fucking was with her. And if not with her, then with my brothers. I don't see anything past Iris. I'm so goddamn wrapped up in her.

"Jeremiah, Graham, Penn—you're with him on this. No son of mine is going down because some girl's got an itch for revenge."

"Yes sir," they chorus, nodding vigorously, but none of them seem to want to look at me. Penn's jaw clenches, Graham looks away, Jeremiah's fists tighten. We're all soldiers under the general's command, but it's my battle that's put us on the front lines.

"Good." Dad's glare sweeps the room one final time.

"This isn't a damn request, Lincoln," he barks, his eyes flaring with the same ferocity that's been known to make grown men cower. "It's an order. You fix this mess." before he storms back out, leaving me in silence.

My eyes find Iris again, her posture rigid, her expression unreadable. I can feel the weight of her stare; it's almost intimate, like she sees straight into the disorder of my thoughts. There's a connection there, something raw and unspoken, teetering on the edge of dangerous.

"Thanks for the support," I say, voice dripping with irony as I look at my brothers, who are staring at where Dad left, each one of them glad to see him gone. We all have our own fucking issues with the prick.

"Anytime," Iris retorts, the corner of her mouth quirking up in that smug way that drives me crazy—in more ways than one.

I scoop her up and throw her over my shoulder, calling out to my brothers, that let's take the night and get some sleep and tomorrow we figure out this bitch's shit and end this.

I close the door behind us, the click of the latch like a gunshot in the quiet. My room is my sanctuary, and that's what I need more than anything right now.

"Why did you do it?" The question comes out more abrasive than I intend, my voice scratching against the silence. "Stand up for me."

"Because," Iris starts, her eyes reflecting a resolve that doesn't quite match the quiver in her voice, "I know you, Lincoln. You're many things, but what she's accusing you of…" She trails off, the implications hanging unspoken between us.

"Is that all?" I probe, leaning back against the mahogany dresser, arms folded over my chest, each muscle tensed with suspicion and something far more dangerous—curiosity.

"Isn't that enough?" she retorts, her green eyes sparking with that familiar defiance.

"Maybe." I push off from the armoire, closing the distance between us. "Or maybe there's more that you want to say to me."

"When you stood up to my father…" She trails off, and I can sense a storm brewing.

"Right." My throat tightens. "The white knight act."

"More like a dark knight," she corrects, a smirk playing on her lips. "But yeah, you did, and I haven't forgotten."

"Flattery will get you nowhere," I fire back, but her words do something to me, and I take a step away from the wood behind me and it puts me just a bit closer to her.

"Lincoln—"

I don't let her finish. My mouth crashes onto hers, hungry, demanding. There's no grace here, just raw need, and she tastes like rebellion and redemption all rolled into one. Her fingers claw at my back, pulling me closer, as if she could crawl inside my skin and see the turmoil that rages there.

"God, angel," I murmur against her lips, and she shivers under my touch, her body speaking a language that words never could.

"Linc," she whispers against my lips, a plea and a warning all at once as I grip the silky strands of her hair in my right hand.

"More. I fucking need more," I grunt. My free hand roams over her body, tracing the curves that haunt my dreams. Each moan from her is a victory, each shiver a testament to the heat we generate—the kind that could burn down this entire damned house.

"Lincoln," she gasps, breaking away just enough to drag air into her lungs. Her eyes are darkness in the moonlight, deep and wild. "What are we doing?"

"Exactly what we need to," I rasp, my voice thick with need. The restraint I had is shredding, threadbare, as I pull her closer, craving the heat of her skin against mine. Her scent envelops me, sweet and intoxicating, like the headiest liquor.

I walk us backward until my knees hit the edge of the bed, and I sink down on it without breaking our mouths apart. My hands roam her back, tracing the curve of her spine before guiding her to stand between my spread legs.

"Straddle me," I command, my tone leaving no room for argument. Yet, Iris hesitates—a deer caught in headlights, her breath hitching. For a heartbeat, she's still, then she shoves at my chest.

"Going soft on me, Blackwood?" she teases, a smile playing on those full lips that I've become addicted to.

"Never," I growl, grabbing her wrists and pulling her down onto me. My words are a promise, a challenge, as I guide her hips to straddle me. The sensation of her weight on me is grounding yet somehow sending me spiraling all at once.

"Prove it," she challenges, her voice laced with sass and that hint of vulnerability she hides so well.

"Challenge accepted," I whisper against her neck, nipping the sensitive skin there. Every arch of her body, every sharp intake of breath, she's under my skin, in my blood, and I'm hell-bent on showing her how much more than soft I can be.

A dark knight for a fallen angel. Match made in hell.

The smirk on Iris' lips doesn't reach her eyes, and that tells me everything. It's like she's waiting for the storm, bracing against what she thinks I'm about to unleash. But what she doesn't realize is that I'm not just the chaos—I can be her calm too. Her hands against my chest are meant to push, to create distance, but all they do is pull me in deeper.

"Lincoln," she breathes out, a mix of caution and anticipation lacing her voice.

"Easy, angel," I murmur, holding her eyes, intense and unyielding. "You think I don't know you're scared? But I'm not here to play predator. Well, not tonight at least." My hands leave her wrists, shifting to cradle her jaw, thumbs brushing over those full lips that spout harshness as easily as they whisper secrets.

She looks at me then, really looks at me. "You can bait me all you want, baby," I tell her, words low and rough, "but tonight, I'm not gonna hurt you. I'm gonna take my fucking time learning everything that makes your body twitch."

Iris shivers, and it's not from the cold. It's the thrill, the promise. The air between us crackles, charged with a desire so thick I could choke on it.

"Lincoln…" Her voice wavers, caught in the web of yearning I weave around us.

"Shh, just feel," I instruct, sliding one hand down her back to rest at the small of her spine, while the other traces the outline of her nipple piercing through her shirt. "Feel every touch, every breath. Memorize it."

"God, you're too much," she moans, and the sound spurns me on.

"Only for you," I confess, my mouth finding the column of her neck, tasting the salt and sweetness that is uniquely Iris. I suckle at the tender flesh, eliciting gasps and a gentle grinding of her hips against mine. Every move she makes, every little noise is mine.

"Lincoln, I—" Her protest dies on her lips as I capture them with mine once again, swallowing her words, devouring her doubt. The kiss is a promise, a quiet vow that tonight, I'll worship every inch of her with the reverence it deserves.

"Let go, Iris," I coax, pulling back to stare into her eyes. "You'll feel it, Iris—every look, every touch. I'll worship at the altar of your body until you're breathless, until you're begging for more."

"God, Lincoln, when you talk like that…" Iris trails off, biting that full lower lip of hers, and damn if it doesn't send a jolt straight to my core.

"Like what? Like someone who knows exactly how to make you unravel?" I tease, my voice a whisper of dark promises. "Because I do, Iris. And I will."